Bring Me Your Enemies
by suz mc
Summary: Episode tag to 4x16 "On The Head of a Pin" -- begins right where the episode ends in Dean's hospital room with Dean a broken mess and Castiel the only one around to take Sam's wrath. A little language and a lot of hurt!Dean and protective!Sam and Castiel.


_Note: Per usual, my mind runneth over after each and every Supernatural episode. Last Thursday, "On the Head of a Pin" just beat the Hell (pardon the pun!) out of all of us and I just saw a little more story after the final scene where Dean fell apart in his hospital bed. How could anyone bear such a burden and stay intact? This is Sam's reaction when he returns to find Dean shattered and Castiel as the only available target to take the blame. Hope you enjoy my little pov. Love to know what it makes you feel._

_Love and pie,_

_Suz_

**Bring Me Your Enemies**

By: Suz Mc

Midnight in a hospital hallway was always peaceful, private. No one was there save for people sitting vigil. Dean had been sleeping since the medical staff had yanked the plastic tube out of his throat. It was progress, and Sam knew it, in spite of the choking, spitting, gagging torture Dean had faced in its wake. They had sedated him soon after to ease his pain and Sam had taken that chance to grab coffee and something to eat.

He hadn't eaten much. It was hard to eat when the world had gotten so completely fucked that nobody was acting the way they should and good and evil seemed to have swapped seats on the bus. But he'd managed to calm down. He wasn't going to serve his brother if he was cranked up into overdrive. Dean needed calm. Dean needed peace and the best he could do was a fabricated fake version of peace but it might be good enough for now.

The second Sam rounded the open doorway into his brother's room, peace broke away into anger.

Dean was sobbing. Not sad. Not crying. Sobbing. Sobbing with his broken body quaking from the force of it. Sam had seen his brother cry before. Controlled tears rolling down his cheeks when sadness or compassion was too much for Dean to bottle inside. Later, he'd pretend it never happened and Sam would back up his denial because that was Dean's way. No chick flick moments. No crying in baseball. No crying period even if you were crying. Even when Dean had puked his story of Hell out on the side of the road, he'd held his pain in check and cried with the restraint of a warrior.

All of that was gone, Dean's way was gone. He'd turned on his side as far as his fractured ribs would allow, trying to hide as he wept. Castiel sat serene and infuriating in a green plastic chair as Dean's body was being rattled apart with each and every gasp.

"Dean! What's wrong?" Sam was beside him; hand on his forehead in the universal gesture of comfort to the infirm. Dean kept on sobbing, leaning into his hand, sweating and straining against the pain.

Turning to the stupidly silent angel in the corner, Sam raised his voice passed acceptable midnight hospital levels. "What the hell did you say to him?! He was fine when I left!"

"Make him go. Please." Dean's voice croaked out in a hoarse brittle whisper. He could barely move and his fingers crawled over the stark white blanket to grab Sam's wrist. "Please, Sammy. I'm sorry. Make him go. Find somebody else." His words dissolved into rough gasps for air as he fought to suck in oxygen and shove out words.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Dean. Calm down." Sam wrapped his arms around what was left of his brother, trying to protect him as he struggled to get enough air to breathe, talk, and cry at the same time. The rage swelled deep inside his chest and Sam turned toward the angel now standing at the foot of the bed. "Get out! I don't know what you said to him, but you get the fuck away from him, now!"

Sam was done cowering in shame before angels who ripped humans to shreds like they were trash. Castiel paused briefly, then hooded his eyes and withdrew into the hallway.

"He's gone, Dean. He's gone. Relax."

"It's my fault. Sorry. Please. God. Dad. I'm sorry." The words were spilling out as Dean gagged and strained in Sam's embrace. The coughing fit took over and his brother's face turned red under the bruises and cuts from Alistair's beating.

With one finger pressed against the call button, Sam did his best to comfort this shell that once held his brother. "None of this is your fault. Don't listen to their shit, Dean. Screw them!"

"It is! All of it!" Suddenly air stopped moving and sound stopped vibrating from Dean's throat.

"I need help in here!" Sam was yelling through the doorway now, shoving the call button until it imprinted on his thumb.

The cavalry arrived in the form of two nurses in pink scrubs, pushing Sam aside like he was furniture. One short pump to a hypo into the IV port and Dean was quiet again. The women hovered, checking their patient's vitals and settling him with soothing voices and touches as the medication took effect.

The crisis passed as Dean crossed over into nothingness, shattered features relaxing into sleep. Only one nurse lingered to monitor his vitals until she was certain his was resting again.

"Your brother has to have calm, Mr. Winchester. If that man in the hall upset him, you're going to have to restrict his access."

"Not a problem." Sam watched as Castiel paced the hall, prowling in front of the doorway. "Can you sit with him a few minutes while I take care of that problem?"

"Sure," she answered in a hushed tone, sliding down into one of the side chairs.

Sam's awe at angelhood was gone, shredded along with his other childhood fantasies of Heaven and goodness. He stalked into the darkened hallway and put himself nose to nose with the vessel holding Castiel's essence.

"You get out and stay out."

"Your brother is needed."

"You've needed him nearly to death, you son of a bitch. Leave him alone."

"Samuel."

The angel had called him that before and it pissed him off down to his core. It had the ring of a father's rebuke to it and Castiel was definitely not his father.

"What the hell did you say to him?!" Any fear he'd had at the potential smite was gone, bled away at the sight of Castiel's shock when he, a mere human, had saved his ass a few hours earlier. "You can't bleed him dry like some self-righteous vampire. You tell me what you said to him."

"He knows his destiny, the truth."

Sam stared into the calm, blank face and felt his rage boil over.

"What is it? What exactly is it you expect from him? More blood? He nearly bled that all out on the way here, you pious piece of shit!" The Impala's seats and floorboards were stained with it. Sam held the bright red memory of Dean's blood soaking into the upholstery, the carpet, and Sam's jeans as he held Dean's head steady with one hand and drove like a mad man with the other.

"That is his story to tell, Sam. I will not betray his privacy." Castiel's mouth held a thin line, his eyes steady and clear.

"Oh, so now you care so much for Dean's privacy? Fuck you!" He raised his voice then hushed at a stern look from the nurse's station. At this point, he feared the pink scrubs more than the sack of righteous bullshit in front of him. "You and your partner sent him back into Hell to do your dirty work because you evidently don't have the stones for it and you don't give a rat's ass that you've broken him apart. All this talk about Dean being 'needed' Dean being 'chosen'? This is how you treat your chosen warrior? Screw you!"

"What we asked of him—"

"Don't you dare hide behind that collective 'We' concept, Castiel. You did the asking. You. You made him do the one thing that would finally destroy him. You made him bring out that monster they put in him, knowing it's the shame that's killing him all over again. You did it. At least be man enough or angel enough to own it!"

"It was a mistake that I deeply regret but we, I, learned valuable information from this event. It was useful in the end. His suffering was not wasted." Castiel wasn't looking away but there was more to his expression now than the mask of a hapless human being.

"Well halle-freaking-luiah!" Sam had to move before the anger tore his joints apart. He stalked back to the doorway of Dean's room to be sure he was still breathing then came back to the face off. "I'm so glad you think setting Alistair loose on Dean was useful, you prick," Sam said in a growling whisper. He was enjoying towering over Castiel's choice of bodies. "When I got him here, he was pissing and puking blood. His ribs are like broken eggshells. His throat was so damaged they nearly had to traech him so he could keep breathing. His skull is fractured, every breath is painful, and I'm not even sure he wants to keep living."

"He will. He knows his destiny and he will be strong enough to face it."

"You don't know jack shit about my brother so don't pontificate about his will like you do. He's been struggling to keep it together for months. He even gave up the drinking, if you haven't noticed." Sam had noticed. He'd seen Dean turn down beer after beer over the past couple of weeks and the only time he'd seen his famous silver flask was when he'd dug it out to offer it to Pamela on her deathbed. Sam had noticed but he hadn't said anything. He should have said something. Should have encouraged him or done something to let Dean know he saw his effort, but this wall between them had gotten too thick, too high.

"If you are the expert on your brother, why do you let him falter alone?"

Enough of this crap. Sam got close enough to Castiel's face to feel his breath. Angels weren't warm, like he thought they would be. They were ice cold, like one touch could freeze you solid. "He was holding onto the ledge with his fingernails and you went into that hospital room and stomped on them so he'd let go. Next time you need something, you come to me. Maybe I'll help you, maybe I won't, but you keep your bloody, filthy wings away from my brother." Sam turned, intending to forget about angels and demons and seals and try to glue Dean back together.

"Perhaps you should concern yourself with your own failing grip, Samuel. You know that you have gone too far."

Castiel's voice didn't waver. Each word came out flat and plain with less emotion than the stark, sterile walls surrounding them. It drew Sam's fury back down the hallway like a magnet.

"On second thought," he said, feeling the trembling surge of power rising up inside his body, "you hurt my brother again, maybe I'll do to you what I did to Alistair. Demons. Angels. You all seem to be made of the same stuff, have the same M.O." The ball of energy pooled in his gut gave a little push and Castiel moved one step backward. "See what I mean?"

His teeth were grinding together with the satisfaction of making the angel flinch, of getting his point across clearly. Sam wanted to see the give in Castiel's eyes but there was none. No backing down. No fear. Only some clear blue disappointment and sadness. Even, pity.

He didn't want or need that bastard's pity. "Stay the hell away from my brother." Sam left the angel behind and went back to Dean's bedside.

Dean was stirring again, mumbling and choking again in his stupor. The tears were back again, bleeding out from under his eyelids.

"Started it…sorry…Sammy...forgive me…oh God…"

Sam shot a look at the nurse who was pushing the rest of the dosage into the port. "He's fighting it," she whispered. "This is the limit he's allowed on the chart. If this doesn't work, I'll call his doctor."

Dean's delirious, agonized babbling was fading off into nonsense sounds that were as heartbreaking as any concrete language. Sam put his hand against his brother's forehead, stroking the tense lines with his thumb. After the nurse left, Sam leaned over to whisper into his brother's ear. "I don't know what Castiel said to you, Dean, but forget it for now. I told him to get the fuck out. Alistair's dead. He's not coming after you again."

Dean was shaking his head against Sam's palm. "Don't hate me," was the last intelligible thing he said before he melted away.

"Why the hell would I hate you, Dean?"

Sam was talking to himself now and dragged a chair as close to Dean's bed as he could get it. Dean was a broken pile of shattered bone and bruises who looked more like a battered kid than a thirty year old man. He was fragile and it was the first time Sam could ever remember thinking that word in reference to his big brother. Dean had been hanged, stabbed, shot, burned and beaten before. He'd been smashed by an eighteen wheeler and given a death sentence after an electrocution. He'd had his heart broken and his dreams destroyed. But never once had he been fragile. He'd been angry and arrogant and so wrapped up in his laugh-in-the-face-of-death mentality that Sam could have smacked him. Even in those last moments before hell hounds tore his chest into slop, Dean has fought and held it together.

That guy wasn't here in this bed. That guy had been dumped into a grave last year.

Sam picked up Dean's hand and it lay limp and boneless in his. After a fight, Dean generally had hamburger for knuckles. It was weird to laugh thinking about being on the receiving end of a Dean Winchester punch. His brother hit harder than anyone on the planet. Dean slammed his fist so hard he left his own flesh and blood imbedded in the target. These knuckles were intact. What happened in that room with Alistair hadn't been a fight. It had been a slaughter.

The world was realigning itself and that included this room. Little brother was now big brother. The parent was now the child. It was a job Sam never, ever wanted. Dean was supposed to be the bossy jerk telling him what to do. Dean was supposed to be in charge, even when Sam fought against it. Dean was supposed to cram his decisions down Sam's throat and shut down arguments with his "because I'm the oldest" bullshit.

Now, Dean was unconscious and Sam could talk and talk and it wouldn't matter. It was the first time in months he'd felt free to do that. First, he let go of Dean's hand. Dean would never consent to handholding if he were still Dean.

"I remember the very first time that I felt real fear. You were there but I bet you don't remember." Sam lowed the metal railing and leaned his elbows on the edge of the bed. "It's so clear, like one of the earliest memories I have. I must have been about three and you, God, you must have been seven. Dad pulled into this deserted rest area to let us blow off some steam. Must have been cooped up in the car for a while because we were running around like crazy. We had a ball and Dad was back in the car. I came around a dumpster and there was this huge stray dog right in my face. He was pissed and growling, damn, I think every hair on that mutt was turned the wrong way." That tiny shiver of remembered fear ran through his stomach, cold and sharp. "I was so scared I couldn't talk, couldn't move. Then, all of a sudden, you were in front of me. You seemed so big back then, but looking back, you were such a skinny brat, you probably didn't weigh much more than me. Do you remember that?"

Dean stayed perfectly still, chest moving slowly up and down.

"Probably not. Anyway, you reached your arm back around me and you stood there between us. I felt your hand shaking and I knew you were as scared as I was but you were still there, facing down that hungry pissed off dog. You had to have been scared shitless, just a kid, but you stood in front of me because I was too scared to talk or move."

That was the Dean he'd buried last year and he wanted him back.

"Dad finally got there and put a bullet in his head and bawled us out for wandering away. Guess it was easier for him to be pissed than scared he'd screwed up, huh?" Sam leaned up closer to his brother's face, lowering his voice. "This thing I'm doing, Dean, I wish I could talk to you about it. I'm trying to do this for you, to get in front of you this time. If I told you what I was doing, you'd be disgusted. I'm disgusted by it, but it's the only way to make this thing inside me useful. Before I do it, this thing with the blood, I'm so sure that it's the right thing. Then I get stronger and I'm able to get one more demon off the line, like today. I mean, if I hadn't taken the blood today, Dean, you'd be dead, Cas would be dead, and Alistair would be free. It's good that I did it. But, afterward, every time, there's this dark pit in my stomach and it gets bigger and bigger until I fill it again. I thought if I got stronger, it would go away, but it's not. It gets worse every time."

Sam laid his head on the blankets and he felt the tears he hadn't realized were flowing soak into the clean white fabric. "I need to talk to you about this so bad, Dean. You don't know how much. Maybe I could have before tonight, but now I don't have the right to ask you to carry this. I don't."

Time went by strangely in silent hospital rooms. Sam wasn't sure how long he rested there beside his brother. Maybe he dozed off for a while. When he finally raised his head again, the blanket was soaked. Weeping Winchesters. Some heroic warriors they were turning out to be.

Sam checked Dean's pulse and listened to the rhythmic sounds coming from the monitors that verified that Dean hadn't been taken away from him, not again.

"You said yesterday that you were tired, but you're not. You're scared and you have every friggin' right to be. This thing in me, this thing I can do, it's all I've got to offer to the fight, Dean, and I hope to God one day you'll understand. If I can take this burden they've put on you away, I will. I swear I will." Sam scrubbed his face dry and cleared the shakiness out of his throat. "So I'm gonna man up and stand in front of you until you're not too scared to talk or fight. My turn to face the hungry dog, okay? Jerk?"

Dean kept on breathing, pale, passive and drugged into something that resembled peaceful sleep.

"Yeah, I know. I'm a bitch."

The hard green vinyl creaked as Sam lay back against his chair, trying to sleep and guard at the same time.

"_Bring me your enemies, lay them before me, and walk away, walk away, walk away."_

_"Firefly" by: Breaking Benjamin_

The End.


End file.
